Opposing Forces FrUK
by PastaEatingNerd
Summary: "We were the perfect rivals, two polarized magnetic energies, constantly pushing each other away. We were the ideal best friends, each making up for what the other lacked. We were never meant to be lovers. If we keep this up, we'll destroy each other."


This is my first attempt at serious fanfiction. It's a non-historical AU so I'll be referring to the characters by their human names only. (And holy pasta! Francis is actually attempting to be profound…and something of an uke, or at least vulnerable! *Shot*) Critique is nice but please keep in mind that I'm a hopeless n00b when it comes to fanfiction. It should go without saying that all the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and that this never actually happened in either Himaruya's story or in real life. Other than that, enjoy. :D

WARNINGS: Slash, slight possible OOC-ness and a less-than-happy ending (but no deaths or anything like that.)

Arthur was always such a complicated man.

Regardless of time, place or feeling, he would stand aloof; his green eyes soaking up the world from afar, watching, always watching. At times, his lips would move—as if he was attempting to communicate with some unseen force—but no sound could ever be heard. It was as if he lived in his own small world of isolation as time would pass silently around him.

When Antonio and I were quite young and living with our grandfather, the hills around our house were a pure deep green. As long as we were home before it got dark, those hills were ours for the scaling. I'd find myself letting the wind guide my steps into a dance, twirling my skirts around me. Antonio would always tease, saying, "you look enough like a girl without having to act like one, mi hermano". However, any uncivilized discourse that followed was quickly forgotten as we'd spy Arthur atop a hill several meters away. He would stare at us intently, his face expressionless. Upon realizing that we'd noticed him, he'd silently disappear into the surrounding grass, his green tunic cloaking him amongst the plant life.

For as long as I can remember, Antonio gazed upon Arthur with reserved interest. I could never tell if his fascination had any sort of emotional attachment or if he simply viewed Arthur as some vast mystery of the universe, just waiting to be solved. (To this day, I think I may never know.) Because he could never muster the courage to ask Arthur such questions himself, I became something of a springboard for much of his curiosity.

"Francis," he'd ask as we'd raise our heads to the cloudless European sky, "why do you think it is that humans often prefer a life of solitude and loneliness to one rich with the company of others?"

"You and your constant musings, Antoine," I'd laugh, "such serious tones do not become you," I would shrug off such questions because I never quite knew the answers, at least not at first. However, as time went on and adulthood took us away from our childish fantasies, I began to see things differently.

While Antonio's fascination with the young Englishman stayed almost frustratingly private, I have never been one to let my affections go unnoticed. Yes, it was not long until my youthful curiosity turned to something more. Before I realized it, I found myself following the boy, ten steps behind, as he'd make his way back to the forest that he and his brothers called home. I'd study his every move, taking in each minute detail. Though his eyebrows were almost frighteningly large, Arthur was beautiful in his own way. His earthly grace, his silent power and, most exasperating of all, that cold, calculating stare, never ceased to enthrall me. (Even now, the mere thought of him sends chills down my spine.) I'd spend many late afternoons in that forest, nestled in the roots of a large tree, lost in my fantasies of a boy who I had never even spoken to.

After several months of this routine, I realized that if I was to have any peace at all, I would have to make my presence known to the boy, if not confess my infatuation outright. Not wanting to hesitate, I did the only thing that seemed logical in my mind. The afternoon was slowly fading into evening and the sunset painted deep shades across the sky. As we entered the forest, fireflies began to dance around us. I knew that no other time could be better.

"Yuck! Your lips are like a frog's!" he screamed, his face turning a deep crimson.

"And you would know the taste of a frog's lips, how?" I giggled in response. I didn't wait for him to answer, "why do you try to hide from my brother and me? Our games would be far more interesting if you were to join them."

His tone was terse, "are you kidding? Why on earth would I want to play games with a frog?"

"If I didn't know better," I replied, "I'd think you were afraid…"

"Afraid? You really must be kidding me," he retorted.

"You mean you are not afraid that my frog lips will eat your caterpillar eyebrows?"

"I don't know who you think you are, git, but for the last time, I am NOT, afraid…and I do NOT have caterpillar eyebrows!"

"Then why do you hide?" I asked. He didn't answer. All was silent until the faint sound of my grandfather's call interrupted the stillness.

"Please come tomorrow," I implored him before running towards the house, "I'm Francis by the way".

"Arthur," the boy whispered, almost inaudibly. Arthur. In the years to come, that name would sit precariously on my lips, etched deeply into my heart, but would be forever out of reach.

Try as I might, I could never make him smile. Even when he began to join Antonio and me in our games and we'd somehow end each day in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the closest hill. Even when Antonio and I showered him with jokes and kindness, no sign of happiness ever escaped his rigid features. He didn't even smile when he told me that he loved me.

He was seventeen, I twenty and the woodland in which we used to play was now a bustling urban landscape. We had spent the last years absorbed in petty rivalries with each other, growing into opposing forces. Arthur always kept court inside his head, his face constantly expressionless while I wore my emotions on my sleeve, letting them glide through my veins and control my every action. I learned to become his heart while he became my self-control. I told him nearly everything that was on my mind at any given time (and was often greeted by his patented glare in response) yet I lived in constant fear that my feelings for him would upset the delicate balance that we had created. As a result, I never told him of their existence.

I didn't need to. A blustery October night in London found me lying awkwardly upon a hard metal park bench. Arthur stood above me, watching as the icy wind sent small chills through my body. His dry taunts about my intolerance for the cold (and my theatrical tirades against the English weather) had turned to thoughtful silence long ago. Taking off his jacket and wrapping it around me, he sat down on the bench next to mine and stared into my eyes for a few moments before asking, "Francis, why…why did you kiss me when we first met?"

"I don't know," I replied, "it just kind of happened."

Seemingly attempting to laugh but smirking awkwardly instead, Arthur moved closer to me and said, "you made my heart skip a beat".

"In a good way or a bad way?" I asked, surprised that I had instilled any emotion besides mild annoyance in someone so incredibly callous.

"In a good way. Why?"

"I wouldn't want to do something that would make you uncomfortable," I answered, well aware that this was not entirely true.

"There's nothing you could do that would surprise me anymore," Arthur replied, carefully adjusting his jacket so that it covered my shoulders. His touch only made the chills more biting and yet, somehow, I didn't mind. Massaging my shoulder, he looked away from me before asking in a faint whisper, "don't you find it absolutely infuriating when you try to make it painfully obvious that you love someone and they just…don't see it?"

I could feel my shoulder blades tensing as the chills wrapped around them. Storms of questions filled my mind, their ice numbing what emotional response I may have had. Still reeling, I asked, "are you trying to tell me something?" hoping to death that I would not be disappointed.

"You really want an answer?" he replied

"Only if you want to give me one," the ice had begun to melt. Small droplets of water left their tracks upon my skin as they descended.

Arthur turned back to me, his face bright red, "shit, Francis! Don't cry! I…I love you". Though the cold winds only intensified as the night went on, I could not feel them. I spent the remainder of the night in his arms, letting the melted frost slowly dance across my cheeks as the shivers eased away.

It would be a lie to say that our relationship was easy. If our friendship had been turbulent at best, our love was nothing short of catastrophic. While Arthur's internal thoughts had often eluded me before, I soon came to notice the many different ways that he manifested them. The slightest twitch of an eye could mean a world of emotion. I slowly but surely came to train myself to recognize such signs, a fact that was not lost on Arthur. Having been used to taking refuge within his mind for so many years, he saw my newfound awareness as incredibly disconcerting…not that he'd let on of course. This, and every other feeling Arthur experienced, was always something that I, given my nature, felt the need to pry out of him.

"Tell me what is on your mind, mon coeur," would become one of my most commonly used phrases.

He would always reply the same way, "nothing…what's it to you anyway, git?"

"It is not nothing," I would whisper, trying to ease his constant tension by massaging the crooks of his shoulder blades, and then, more often than not, "you are upset…and you are afraid of revealing the reasons to me because you fear that recounting them will make you more upset".

"I am not upset…" he'd begin to retort but I would rarely let him get far before making myself at home in the nape of his neck. Even at his coldest hour, I could never resist him. In that respect, very little had changed since our youth. Lifting my lips from his soft skin and fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, I'd continue my efforts.

"You cannot hide from me, mon Anglais. I am forever yours, even if you do not want me," and in time, I'd have him…or at least what he was willing to give. Though he never smiled, I could feel the pleasure pulsing through him as he surrendered himself to me. It was at those moments that we experienced the profoundest of bliss. We were two souls intertwined with nothing to dull the sound of our hearts beating as one. (Of course, if Arthur ever heard me describe it this way, he'd never forgive my sentimentality.)

Yet for each time that he would let me in, I would find myself alienated more often than not. Arthur's face would become stony and his eyes wide. The secrets he held seemed almost tangible. It was at these times that I could not even begin to reach him. It was then and only then that I came to realize the answer to Antonio's question. If frustrated enough, I'd relay my findings to Arthur in an act of desperation.

"I know why you do this to yourself," I'd say as I'd stand outside his locked bedroom, "you are afraid,"

"Is that your answer for everything?" he'd retort, the door between us muffling his words.

I would ignore such comments and go on, "this passive-aggressive complacency, it is much easier then confrontation, no? You know this as well as I do. You sit alone in this isolation because it is familiar to you. Your pain is such that it has begun to feel like home. Confronting the outside world is straining an un-stretched muscle; it hurts more than your internal pain ever will."

"Can't you just leave me alone?" he'd reply, his voice trembling, almost on the verge of tears.

"And give you yet another excuse to be miserable? I do not think so," neither of us truly benefited from such stubbornness of course…and yet, even in our youth, it was always our opposing entities that defined the relationship we had. He always used to joke that the French fought for money and the British fought for honor. To this, I would respond that we all fight for what we can't have. My every move was a fight to keep Arthur with me so I should not have been surprised when he began to drift away…

Given our shared history, I thought nothing of Arthur's sudden desire to see Antonio on a more regular basis and took their weekly trips to Arthur's favorite pub in stride. After all, how could I begrudge my love a hiatus from our tumultuous shared life; (especially when it was to be shared with Antonio, who I trusted beyond measure)? Whether it was naive trust or some repentant desire to make amends, I convinced myself that these little excursions could only benefit us in the long run.

My brother had always expressed interest in the Englishman, if only in the most abstract of senses. He, not unlike Arthur, was always an intellectual first and a lover shortly thereafter. As a result, he could give Arthur the one thing that I could not—and the one thing he most desperately wanted. While I, ever the romantic, could only ponder the mysteries of the heart and mind, Antonio's musings focused on more abstract outside forces. Secrets of space and time whirled around him as he tried to make sense of all that he could not see…and would never be a part of. I suspect Arthur reveled in the chance to forget about personal matters in favor of more intangible ones—though I could hardly understand the appeal myself.

I can only blame blissful ignorance for the fact that I could not sense Arthur's feelings for Antonio. I attributed the color in his cheeks when he returned home from his excursions to the slow burn of the whiskey. When they would arrive home hand in hand, I suspected mere companionship—being as effusive as I was, I made holding hands with my friends a matter of practice. The subtle looks he and Antonio exchanged when they were together eluded me almost entirely. I may have never known about their budding romance if Arthur had not kissed Antonio gently on the temple as they reached the end of one of their excursions. I watched from the window, barely able to comprehend what I was seeing. Hadn't Arthur told me that I was the one he loved? Had he not given himself to me time and time again? Years upon years of turmoil had not separated us and here he was, letting the sweet words of my brother take him away. This was more than I could bear.

"Why did you not tell me of your feelings for Antonio?" I asked, when Arthur finally came inside. His face turned a deep shade of crimson not unlike the one he wore on the day I first made myself known to him.

When he finally forced himself to speak, his words were edged with desperation, "Francis…I…"

"You should know by now that you cannot conceal anything from me, mon cher," I interjected, trying to keep my mind clear and the tone of my voice level. My shock had become a dull pain that festered in my throat, making the act of speaking difficult.

"Fine," Arthur replied, staring intently at the floor, "I'm…interested in Antonio but," his tone changed suddenly, "he has such a brilliant mind! I think he really sees things the way I do. I can talk to him about nearly everything…" Even as the pain began to course through my body and my eyelids became heavy with unshed tears, I could not help but smile at the way Arthur's eyes lit up, almost childlike, as he extolled my brother's virtues. It was the closest Arthur had ever come to smiling. It was clear that Antonio made him happy. My heart beat rapidly in my chest. I loved Arthur more than all the world. Who was I to deprive him?

"Arthur…" I interrupted, my heart still racing, "I don't mind," it was a lie, "however you decide to handle this, I will be alright," another lie, "I trust you," this lone truth was the most painful to bear, given what he had just told me. I left Arthur standing in the entry hall and walked quickly toward our shared washroom to prepare for bed. Splashing frigid water upon my face and letting my nerves pulse with the cold, I felt a deep chasm of isolation open violently within my chest. Never had I felt so painfully alone.

Having known me for so long, I suspect Arthur realized this. He flung his arms around me as I climbed into bed beside him. "Please don't get the wrong idea," he whispered, "I still love you, je t'aime si beaucoup…or however the bloody hell you people say it". His warm embrace gave me hope. We had been through so much together that that Antonio's presence in our relationship seemed minimal by comparison…or at least, this was what I tried to convince myself.

I had been in open relationships before. In fact, before Arthur, my romantic life often took the form of brief, informal liaisons. I did not have lovers so much as I had outlets for my affection. As my love and passion belonged to Arthur alone, these encounters remained casual at best and I often had many simultaneously. Therefore, the addition of my brother seemed almost natural to me at the beginning. Though Arthur would usually visit Antonio alone, there would occasionally come a day when my brother would grace our home with his presence. On such days, I perused pages upon pages of recipes, attempting to outdo myself with feast after sumptuous feast. Cooking became something of an outlet for me, as it allowed for a distraction from any jealousy I might have felt (not to mention the fact that it gave Arthur another reason to stay with me). By the time dinner approached, the steam from the many dishes would rise almost blindingly over the table, creating an ambient (and if I do so say so myself, romantic) effect. As if on cue, Arthur and Antonio would take their seats and for a few wonderful hours, it was as if we were young again. Only the occasional sound of chewing would interrupt our constant laughter as we shared stories, told jokes and bathed in the warmth of our own enjoyment.

Alas, as the dishes were consumed and the steam cleared, the manner of the room changed. Drunk and engorged on wine and decadence, we began to lose our heads. The fabric of our delicate relationship showed signs of fraying at the edges as resentment grew upon it like mildew.

"The way I see it," Antonio said as we finished the last of our desert, "there are two kinds of people in the world. There are the enlightened ones, those who can travel beyond the scope of human needs to reach a higher consciousness," wine began to dribble over his chin as he continued, "and then there are those who are painfully grounded in the material world, who only see what is in front of them, who only want what they know is real," a drop of wine slid gracefully down his neck and made contact with his shirt, staining it dark purple. "Essentially, Arthur, mi querida, there are people like us and there are people like Francis," Antonio laughed, "what is romanticism if not a refusal to see beyond human desires? The mind was meant for better things."

Knowing that we would surely come to blows if I did not take my leave, I'd begin to gather the dishes, but not before letting my ego get the best of me, "at least I am capable of, no, a master at fulfilling such desires," I would reply, then, turning to meet Antonio's gaze, "well, at least that is what Arthur told me last night between the sheets," I then directed my attention to Arthur, "isn't that right mon amour?"

Before Arthur could respond, Antonio let out a long, drunken laugh, "if you were truly capable of satisfying Arthur, mi hermano," he'd shout after me as I made my way to the kitchen, "I would not be here!" Now Arthur would begin laughing too, only to be cut off by Antonio's deep embrace. The smell of alcohol was tangible, infecting the very air we breathed. The laughter that my love and my brother shared at my expense seemed to make the stench all the stronger. In a haze of drunken distress, I left the dining room hastily, the foul scent burning my eyes…or was it my tears?

Antonio would leave within the hour and Arthur would find me in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. Steam would nestle itself around me, hiding my tear-stained face from view. The kettle would whistle along with Arthur's hiccuping laughter, reminding me sickeningly of a child's petty teases.

"Francis?" his voice was that of a madman, if not a man who had consumed one too many shots of whiskey, "Francis, where's my tea?"

"Come and retrieve it, you lazy Englishman," I'd answer, letting out a forced laugh. He would bat away clouds of steam as he made his way to my side. Some nights, he would take the tea without comment and leave as abruptly as he had come. Others, he would find me among the vapors and notice how my eyes burned red, hotter than the scalding tea that I presented to him. Something inside him would change. The lines around his eyes would suddenly disappear and his muscles would go slack. His mouth would open awkwardly and his imposing facade would disappear almost entirely.

"Francis, you…you can't…please don't," he'd stutter wildly, not knowing what to do with himself or, for that matter, me, "Don't cry, Francis! I hate it when you cry. Just don't okay? Please?" and then his arms would be around me and his lips, softened by the steam, would interlock with mine. His hands would massage the small of my back; reaching under my shirt fervently and making it painfully clear what he wanted. Arthur's movements had a wild passion to them that I found impossible to resist…and so I never so much as questioned it when he led me to our bedroom; not even as he stains of the wine that had fallen from Antonio's lips stood out darkly against the white of Arthur's shirt.

The moment his hands touched my bare flesh, nothing mattered. The world would melt away around us every time we made love. Our love was always such that we were able to learn each curve, each subtle indentation of the other's body, by heart almost instinctively. Arthur was perfect and I craved him like no other. He could always tell, too. This same man, the one who whispered things like "do you have any idea how beautiful you are," and "you are my everything. I'm nothing without you," as he ravished me, this man could also destroy me. Indeed, I spent many nights alone in our bed, freezing without Arthur's love to warm me. I'd reach towards the places he should have been as I slept, only to wake up in a state of shock as my arms came up empty. It hurt so much to be alone. It became impossible to bear at times. Near the end, I realized that I could no longer continue in this way. I needed something to change, I needed Arthur.

Eventually, such loneliness managed to penetrate even our most passionate moments. One night, Arthur caught a glimpse of my face as he handled me. I will never be sure what I looked like on that night but it made Arthur stop in his tracks. Moving awkwardly so that he could lay beside me, he looked into my eyes and asked, "what's wrong?"

"Wrong?"

"You always tell me I can't hide my feelings from you," he replied, "it goes both ways, Francis. Now tell me what's wrong." He was right, of course. If I didn't tell him now, he would find out soon enough.

"How many times have you made love to Antonio?" I asked

"Is that what this is about?" he asked, "Francis, why didn't you tell me? You said you didn't mind!" Arthur was well-versed every facet of my being. How could he not have known? No, it was not that he did not know but that he did not want to know.

"I did not want to mind, my love, oh dear God did I not want to mind," I could feel tears again. My lids were beginning to chafe from the amount I had cried over the past few months. I did not think about my words as I said them. Arthur deserved better than the lie of a calculated answer, "I love you, Arthur. I have had many others but even they knew that I could not love them as I love you. Years upon years have gone by since I first laid eyes on your beautiful form and my feelings have not changed. I gave you everything I had, let you see even the most secluded divisions of who I am. You are my soul, Arthur. I belong only to you," I paused, trying in vain to catch my breath. My heart pulsed violently, a ticking time bomb inside my chest. Letting Arthur's beautiful eyes lead me forward, I concluded, "…it is just a matter of getting used to the fact that you will never belong only to me."

Arthur looked at me for a long time. Many unspoken words were shared between us. Finally, he wrapped a blanket around me, just as he had with his jacket so many years ago, and kissed the top of my forehead. "Sleep, my darling," he whispered, "please, don't fret, not now," I could not help but be overwhelmed by bliss as he held me and I slept fitfully in his arms.

I would wager a guess that we knew the end of our story was near that night. In fact, it was not long before Arthur took me aside and said, "I…I think we need to…to end the romantic aspect of our relationship," I can hardly say that I was surprised given the circumstances and yet I still received the words as I would poisoned needles to my flesh.

"You give me the world and I just can't accept it. I always just end up hurting you," he continued. The venom spread quickly. Unable to look Arthur in the eye, I stared intently at my hands. They were shivering even more violently than the night our relationship began. Noticing how I trembled, Arthur took my hands in his and whispered, almost inaudibly, "…I don't want to hurt you anymore."

Unable to control myself, I finally raised my head. Pulling my hands from his grasp, I said the first thing that came to mind, "Do you? Or do you just not want to get hurt yourself?"

"Francis…"

The venom had consumed me, "what Antonio gives you is not love," I spat, "constant praise, simple answers, naivety, real love is not like that!" now it was Arthur whose head was turned downwards. I could not see his face but his hands were balled in fists, knuckles white with rage.

"Honesty; the courage to tell your lover things he may not want to hear; passion, passion that makes you burn with anger and desire simultaneously. The ability to stand by your lover in even in the most dire of situations; the acceptance of the fact that love is a work in progress—a constant battle of pain and pleasure—this is real love! Would you really give that up?"

"Please, please…" Arthur whimpered, a single tear falling down his cheek "please, I beg of you, just stop," but I couldn't stop. I knew that there was no other time. This was my last chance to tell him everything.

"No, I have known you longer and better than anyone, mon amour. I have seen your heart and know all of your strengths and weaknesses. Your motives have always been clearer to me than they have been even to yourself. It is not that you do not want me but that you know I am capable of breaking you."

"You're right," Arthur sighed, raising his head, "is that what you want to hear, frog? That you're right? Well you are but it's far more complicated than that. Don't you see? Could your mind even begin to comprehend? We were the perfect rivals, two polarized magnetic energies, constantly pushing each other away. We were the ideal best friends, each making up for what the other lacked. We were never meant to be lovers, Francis. If we keep this up, we'll destroy each other some day, I'm sure of that". Still overwhelmed from my outburst and subconsciously aware that there was truth in his words, I had no response.

"You always said that opening up to you would make things better in the long run," Arthur continued, "it never did. I needed protection and all you gave me was vulnerability. You say I'm too careful, too calculating and that might very well be true but at least I can protect myself. Your heart is still convinced that we can make this work, despite being broken many times over. You'd follow me to the ends of the earth if possible, but I could never be yours. Fresh wounds are all you'd receive. I refuse to subject you to such a fate." With that, he kissed my forehead softly and was gone. I will never know whether or not I did try to follow him to the ends of the earth, or even out the door. Our final conversation as lovers stayed so prominent in my memory that the rest of the night was quickly forgotten.

I avoided Arthur and Antonio as best I could in the following months, always looking for other ways to occupy my time. Even in my misery, I wished nothing but happiness for them. However, given the state of many of our drunken meetings, I had always assumed that Antonio wanted nothing to do with me. Therefore, I was quite surprised when he appeared on my doorstep, tired and disheveled. Unsure how exactly to handle the situation, I invited him in.

Leading him to the sitting room, I helped him make his way to a chair, "would you like something to drink, mon frère?" I asked, "I have tea, wine, water…"

"Did you ever feel that Arthur was incapable of loving you? Did you wonder if he ever cared for you at all?" he asked, cutting me off hurriedly. His eyes bared new creases and his complexion had an unhealthy pallor.

"Antoine?" I asked, unwilling to search my mind for an answer.

"He stares coldly at the world, letting warmth bounce off him. It's as if he repels all love, never letting even the faintest smile penetrate him". Antonio's words seemed to mirror the thoughts I had about Arthur every day. Taking a sip of my wine, I chose my words carefully before responding.

"Arthur…Arthur is a complicated man. Spirits wage war inside him. I would guess that there is a part of him that does not believe in love…and yet that very same part craves it like no other. I would assume that being a youngest child, isolated while the worlds of his brothers whirled around him, influenced this aspect of his personality,"

Antonio cocked his head in what seemed to be confusion. Even as I continued to speak, I could see his eyelids beginning to grow heavy. Every bone in his body suggested struggle. Noticing how my eyes dipped over his weary features, he suddenly grew stiff, "Go on, Francis," he said, curtly.

"Arthur often tests the waters of trust and love," I continued, "he will push you away, fighting himself, the world and anyone who might stand in his way. It is a losing battle and Arthur knows this…and this is why he resumes such tactics. He wishes to be rescued from himself, to feel proof that love exists in this world."

"Then why does he insist on shutting me out?" Antonio's outburst made my heart jump inside my chest. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes now. His shoulders seemed to creak as they slowly became tense. Something akin to pity welled up inside me…and yet I could not manage it. Antonio was simply being subjected to a fate that I had once experienced alone.

"He wants to be proven wrong," I replied, abruptly, hoping to keep Antonio from falling further into agony. As he stared back at me, I could see the shadow of his childhood visage. My brother, my best friend, who had criticized my weakness, my femininity, was crumbling before my eyes. Instinctively, I reached out a hand to touch him but he quickly swatted it away.

"How," his voice was raw with anger and pain, "how do you understand him? How can you just sit there, calmly and talk about him? What on earth do you know that I don't?"

My face seemed to sting as my mouth broke into a smirk of its own accord. "You have said it yourself, mon frère, I am nothing more than a romantic," I replied. Having nothing more to say to him and knowing that any gesture of comfort would be turned down, I prepared to show Antonio to the door. However, I found myself stopped hastily as he buried himself in my chest. I could feel my shirt dampen as he wept…and we were children again. It was as if Antonio had skinned his knee or faced a strong rebuking from our grandfather. Holding him tightly, I let his pain course through me, mixing effortlessly with my own. Time seemed to stand still, if only for a few moments. Regaining composure, Antonio looked at me in a way that I could not interpret before closing the door behind him, leaving me alone in the front entrance. Emotions of all kinds ran through my mind.

Too overwhelmed to do much else, I made my way to what had once been Arthur's and my shared bedroom. Allowing my passions to control me, I felt myself fall onto the bed, my chest burning with the emptiness that only loss can bring…and then that pain burst open. Tears flooded from my eyes, their moisture causing the bedclothes to stick to my skin. Sobs shook my entire body and I could not help but think, darkly, that there would be nobody to hold me as I shivered now.

And in that instant, I began to lose my sanity. My skin seemed to crack with the strain as I became lost in all the thoughts I had thus far never expressed. A grand array of visions danced before my eyes and yet I was unable to touch them…just as I was unable to keep Arthur by my side, to save Antonio from the pain of Arthur's love and, finally, to keep my emotions from holding me hostage…and then it was over. My eyes, burning and no longer able to shed tears, closed instantly and within minutes I was asleep.

Time has passed since these events and, though I eventually acquired the strength to move on with my life, there has always been something missing. Even as this life carries me onward, I know I will never again feel whole. Arthur meant far more to me than any friend or lover could. He was my other half, the adversity that existed within my very being taking form. We were nothing short of symbiotic; his strengths were my deficiencies and vice versa. We did not so much take care of each other as we lived off one another, growing stronger when given a taste of what we did not have. Losing him felt as though a part of my soul was being ripped away—and really, when all was said and done, it was.

It is for this same reason that I cannot condemn Arthur for giving up. Isolated and disturbed beyond any thought of healing, the intensity of what we had proved to be detrimental to him. All his secrets, his anxieties, the visions of the supernatural that danced upon his consciousness; the intensity of such things would surely overwhelm Arthur if he was forced to confront them. Given the circumstances, it is probably best if they were never understood…And yet I understood them, probably better than Arthur himself could have. While they wove their fanciful yarns in his head, they saved the morals of these stories, the motives behind Arthur's every action, for me—the keeper of his heart. Feeling unprotected, even violated, within his own mind was the one weakness Arthur could not let slide. His departure was nothing if not an act of self-preservation.

Though many other regrets stay with me to this day, the one that haunts my every waking moment is that now, things will never be the same between us. We had become too close, crossing some invisible line as our beings blended together. Our boundaries had been broken in the act of love and with them, any semblance of a healthy relationship. Our friendship alone balanced on a tightrope and our romance was the weight that caused anything we might have had to fall. I cannot help but think that Arthur was right, that we were never meant to be lovers. However, no matter how many times I tell myself these things, the pain does not subside. It has been years and the flame of my love has never showed signs of dwindling. Sometimes, I wonder if Arthur feels the same way.

Unbeknownst to my brother, Arthur still calls me every so often. It is always late at night and he is usually under the influence of alcohol. Knowing that we owe each other nothing, he bleeds his words profusely, opening up to me in ways that he would never have dreamed of when we were together. "Antonio, he turns a deaf ear," he says, "he never listens. Nobody ever listens. But you do, you always do. You've been here for me for years. You shouldn't still be here…" by this time, his words are slurred almost beyond comprehension and the pain that he took great care to hide comes forth, "I feel so alone…I've built this wall up over years upon years… and I can't take it down now…but I'm so afraid, I can't even try…so many secrets, so many lies, why did I lie to you, Francis? Why am I lying to Antonio? Why am I lying to myself?" and I am not at liberty to repeat the rest. Some secrets must either be kept or come out on their own.

Each exchange ends the same way.

"Francis…"

"Oui, Arthur?"

"Do you still love me?" he asks, often on the verge of tears.

"Of course," I answer, trying desperately to keep from crying myself, "je t'aime. Je t'aime si beaucoup".

He takes a deep, rasping breath before asking, "will you wait for me?"

My response is constant: "always".

"You're incredibly sweet. It makes me so happy…" he says.

I cannot help but smile as I reply, "I'm glad…I am glad you're happy,"

Upon hearing these words, Arthur goes silent. I stay on the phone until his breathing becomes regular before hanging up and going to sleep myself. I suspect he forgets such whisky-soaked conversations by morning while I am forced to awaken with a heavy heart. I've come to accept that the turbulent past we share—the same past that draws us to each other like the opposite poles of a magnet—will keep Arthur from acting upon his feelings. I will be nothing more than a confidante to him as long as that past still lingers over our heads. Nevertheless, the pain has not eased over the years. I don't think it ever will. Yet as I lay down to rest at the end of these intoxicated confessionals, I cannot help but feel satisfied…for I know that my love is smiling in his sleep.

Arthur, you were always such a complicated man.


End file.
